


carry it with no regret

by PaperRevolution



Series: outer-space mover [9]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Arguing, Banter, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 08:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12836910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperRevolution/pseuds/PaperRevolution
Summary: Space AU. Ecthelion and Glorfindel attempt to adjust to the recent shift in their relationship. Aredhel returns to life aboard the Formenos proper, and Ecthelion determines to speak to her about his squadron's failure to protect her, and about the events that led to her time with Eöl.





	carry it with no regret

**Author's Note:**

> 1.) This takes place on the same day as the previous instalment.  
> 2.) Usual warning for reference to past abuse, near the end of this fic.  
> 3.) Warning for reference to mild homophobia. Duilin's parents are very...traditional.  
> 4.) How does one send a birthday card in space? No fucking clue, honestly.

“—and next time we get leave,” Duilin is saying to the others as Glorfindel and Ecthelion join them at their particular table, “They’ve actually agreed to meet him. Can you imagine? Dad was all, ‘will we get to see you, soon?’ To which I said—What was it again?”

“You said,” says Penlod around a diffident half-smile, “I’ll come home next time I get leave, but only if I can bring Pen with me.”

Rog’s mouth falls open dramatically. “No fucking way.”

“Yes fucking way,” Duilin grins. “It looks like they’re finally coming around to the idea of us. Though I’m fairly sure my mother secretly thinks it’s ‘just a phase’.” He takes a sizeable bite of toast. “Hey, remember when my folks met you for the first time, Thel? You were this obnoxiously loud gay cadet, and for weeks afterwards, every time I commed them, Ma would be like ‘are you still hanging around with That Kid’?”

Ecthelion laughs. “My entire life is a phase your mother is hoping I’ll grow out of,” he says. “But I like to think I’ve won her over by now. Mostly, at least.”

“Hey, she sends you birthday cards. Do you know how rare an honour that is?”

“You get birthday cards from Tuilindo’s ma?” Rog splutters into his coffee. “No shit. Where’s mine?”

Duilin snags a raspberry from Penlod’s plate and pops it into his mouth. “Like I said. It’s a rare honour,” he says as Pen swats at him futilely.

“Fucking hell,” says Rog, with feeling. “Birthday cards. Gods.”

Ecthelion raises his eyebrows. “Are you jealous?” he deadpans. And then, distracted; “Holy shit, Laurë, what are you trying to do to yourself?”

All sleepy-eyed innocence, Glorfindel blinks at him. “What?”

“Do you always put that much sugar in your tea? Are you trying to put yourself in an early grave? How have I not noticed this before?”

Rog and Penlod snicker.

“You,” says Glorfindel blearily, “Have a severe deficit in the Chill department.” He smiles winningly. “It’s early. I need waking up properly.”

“Pretty sure Mr No Chill over here has other ways of waking you up properly,” says Rog slyly, to cackles and guffaws from everyone else.

Glorfindel is unconcerned. “I don’t know what you mean,” he responds, but he’s grinning.

For several seconds, and at breakneck speed, Ecthelion takes stock of the situation. His squadmates are making the usual suggestive jokes—but Glorfindel doesn’t seem to mind at all, and this is definitely Not Usual. There’s no mumbled resistance; no pink-cheeked embarrassment. Why? Is he just not awake enough to feel awkward about it, yet? Or is it because something has very obviously changed between the two of them, lately? Is his ease about this a good thing or a bad thing? What does it mean?

“I think you broke Ehtelë,” says Duilin wryly to Rog.

“Huh?” says Ecthelion, belatedly.

“You’re making that face,” Duilin tells him.

“What face?”

“The ‘I’m losing my shit internally’ face.”

“I don’t have a—”

“Sorry,” Glorfindel, apparently more awake now, puts in, “But you do. You’re doing it right n—” He breaks off abruptly, the colour draining from his face.

Because, Ecthelion realises, following his gaze, Aredhel Ar-Feiniel has just walked into the mess hall.

“Fuck,” says Ecthelion, proceeding to lose his shit rather more audibly. “Oh, shit. Oh, fuck.”

*

Aredhel is up on the observation deck, watching a lone meteorite burning a path through the black, when she hears light, quick footsteps on the stairs. She turns as the narrow door slides open and a familiar wiry, dark-haired figure steps from the yellowish light of the stairwell into the obs deck’s silver-blue dimness.

“Ireth,” says her brother’s protégé, Sub-Lieutenant Fountain, rather more cautiously than she remembers him. “Hi.”

She looks at him. His face is drawn, the skin beneath his eyes bruised purplish from lack of sleep, and for a moment she’s reminded of the scared, angry, desperate kid he’d been when they’d first met. (How many years ago was that? Seven? Eight?)

Neither of them are kids anymore. Neither of them really were back then, either, if she’s being honest with herself.

“Hey,” says Aredhel. And then, without further preamble, because she’s sick of dancing around other people’s feelings, “What’s up?”

He stares at her for a moment. She can tell he doesn’t know how to begin. He shifts restively from one foot to the other. Pushes his hands through his hair so that little strands of it stand on end.

Then:

“I just—I wanted to tell you I’m sorry,” he blurts. “If I—if we—if I hadn’t lost track of you—I mean, we were supposed to keep you safe—”

Aredhel can’t help it; she rolls her eyes.

“Part of me was glad we got attacked,” she tells him, bluntly, “Not because I wanted anyone to get hurt, obviously, but I used it as a way of giving you the slip. I could’ve stuck close by you, like you told me to, but I didn’t. I made that choice. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

He shakes his head vehemently. “That’s not the point! If we’d stopped you—if I’d been paying more attention—”

And suddenly the day’s frustrations are brimming over, and Aredhel can’t deal with it—she doesn’t want to deal with it—and before she knows it, she’s yelling, her voice pitchy and choked and thick with unshed tears:

“Fucking hell, Ecthelion, would you shut up? Did you hear a word I said? I! Made! A! Choice! I get that you think you’re this big fuckup, I get that you feel like you just fail as a person and you spend your whole fucking life trying to prove yourself or make up for that or whatever, but do not—do not project that onto me! Because I have enough going on right now, and I don’t need that shit! I don’t need your stupid manpain and your stupid apologies and whatever else, so just—just get over it, all right? Just get over it!”

She pulls in a deep, shuddering breath, blinking furiously and then scrubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands.

“Ireth—” Ecthelion starts, but she holds up a trembling hand to forestall him.

“And you can tell the others, if any of them are planning to pull something like this,” she grits out, “Not to bother. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Ireth, listen—”

She lets out a ragged noise between a sob and a peal of hysterical laughter. “Don’t! Stop it. Just—” she gulps a steadying breath which does nothing, in fact, to actually steady her. “Just—leave me the fuck alone, all right? Fix yourself before you go around trying to fix other people.”

Something in his expression changes. Aredhel recognises the same horrible, abject resignation she’s felt so many times herself whenever Eöl would tell her that no one else could ever love her. She knows it well enough, by now, to call it when she sees it. And it makes her feel sick to her stomach.

“Ehtelë,” she starts, “I didn’t mean—”

He shakes his head a little; forces a smile. “Yeah, you did,” he says, “And you’re right. And it’s fine. We can—we’ll forget we ever had this conversation, if you want.” He turns, quickly, casting the briefest of glances back at her over his shoulder. “I’m just gonna—I’ll see you around, yeah?”

He doesn’t wait for her to respond, though. In a moment, he’s gone, the stairway door shutting behind him with a final sort of click.

Aredhel stares blankly at the closed door, her insides churning.

I’m nothing like him, she tells herself. I’m nothing like Eöl.

But the thing is, she’s no longer at all sure she believes it.


End file.
